There was so much going on in 1936 with the height of the Great

Hear, O seekers of remembrance, the words of Matt Bomer, who said: “There was so much going on in 1936 with the height of the Great Depression and the Spanish Civil War and Germany on the move and all of those things. There was a tension in the air.” In this reflection he reminds us of a time when the world stood at a crossroads, when every breeze carried with it both despair and foreboding, when nations trembled under the weight of poverty, tyranny, and looming conflict. It was a year in which history seemed to hold its breath, waiting for storms that all knew must come.

The Great Depression still strangled the globe in 1936. Factories were silent, fields barren of profit, and families endured hunger and uncertainty. Bread lines stretched through the streets of America, while in Europe men and women struggled to find dignity in endless unemployment. The economy had not yet healed, and in its wounds festered discontent, a soil in which extremist ideologies grew. To live in such times was to carry a constant heaviness, where the future seemed dim and survival itself an achievement.

At the same time, the Spanish Civil War erupted, a conflict that was not merely about Spain but about the soul of Europe itself. On one side stood the Republic, supported by workers, peasants, and idealists; on the other, the forces of Francisco Franco, backed by fascist powers. Volunteers from across the world—poets, students, laborers—came to fight in the International Brigades, believing Spain was the frontline in the struggle between freedom and tyranny. The land itself became a prophecy, foreshadowing the greater war soon to engulf all of Europe.

Meanwhile, Germany under Hitler was on the move, casting aside the shackles of Versailles. The reoccupation of the Rhineland in 1936 was bold defiance, a direct challenge to France, Britain, and the order of the post-World War I world. It was the year the Berlin Olympics shone with spectacle even as they concealed the dark heart of the Nazi regime. To the observant, it was clear that Germany was preparing not only to rise but to conquer. And so the world felt the tightening of the noose: the shadow of a new war stretching across the earth.

In that year, as Bomer says, there was a tension in the air—not unlike the charged silence before a storm. Nations sensed it, writers captured it, ordinary people whispered of it. George Orwell, who fought in Spain, wrote of the fragility of ideals when met with bullets. Farmers in the Dust Bowl of America felt the same sense of doom, as if nature itself conspired with politics to weigh down the human spirit. It was not merely events, but the feeling of inevitability, of history building toward catastrophe, that defined the age.

The lesson we must draw is that there are times when the world warns us, when the very air hums with unease. To ignore these warnings is folly. In 1936, the signs were there: poverty unhealed, fascism unchecked, democracy unsteady. Few acted with urgency, and so the world was plunged into the abyss of the Second World War. Tension ignored becomes calamity; unrest neglected becomes war.

Therefore, O children of tomorrow, learn from the unease of the past. When you sense a gathering storm—whether in politics, in economics, or in the life of your own soul—do not wait for the thunder to break. Act with foresight, mend what is broken, confront what is rising, and strengthen what is fragile. For Bomer’s words remind us that history does not come suddenly—it announces itself, quietly at first, as a tension in the air. Those who heed it may avert disaster; those who do not are swept away. Be vigilant, and prepare while there is still time.